Free Fall

  He looks stunned, too.

  “That can’t be right,” says Christine. “Why would anybody want to kill Dr. Rosen?”

  “Not knowing, can’t say,” mumbles Ceepak, who, it seems, has slipped into his analytical automaton mode. He thumbs a speed dial number.

  “What’s up?” I ask.

  “Calling Chief Rossi.”

  The new guy. Great. The Chief of Detectives has to call the Chief of Police and tell him what his mommy just said. I don’t envy Ceepak on this call.

  “Roy? John Ceepak. Sorry to be bothering you on the weekend. I see. Yes, sir. Things do get busy around town in the summer. Yes, sir. It’s all good. Sir, I need to call in a favor but I wanted to run it by you first. I’d like to contact Dr. Rebecca Kurth, the county medical examiner. Arnold Rosen passed away this morning. That’s right. Ninety-four, sir. Well, there is some suspicion of foul play …”

  Here, Ceepak takes a long pause.

  “My mother talked to Dr. Rosen last night. In their conversation, Dr. Rosen expressed a fear that someone was out to kill him. Yes, sir. My mother. No, sir. She does not typically get involved in our homicide investigations. In this instance, however, she was friendly with the deceased. Bingo, sir. Yes, sir. At the Senior Center.”

  Ceepak is using a thumb and finger to massage the bridge of his nose while the Chief unloads on him in his ear.

  “Well, sir, we have, in the past, done favors for Dr. Kurth. I don’t think this will, as you suggest, ‘ruin our relationship’ with the county medical examiner’s office. Yes, sir, you have my word. If Dr. Kurth, as you say, ‘laughs in my face,’ I will let the matter drop. Thank you, Chief.”

  Ceepak thumbs the OFF button.

  “You guys are really going to investigate Dr. Rosen’s death?” says Christine with a nervous titter. “He was ninety-four.”

  “Indeed,” says Ceepak. “However, he was not on Hospice Care, therefore an investigation into the cause of his death may be warranted.”

  “It’s up to Dr. Kurth?” I say.

  “Roger that.” Then he turns to Christine. “How was Dr. Rosen this morning when you came on duty?”

  “Tired, I guess. He didn’t want to wake up and eat breakfast or take his morning pills. Finally, after a little cajoling, I got him out of bed, escorted him to the bathroom, helped him clean up, brought him back to bed. He still wouldn’t take his pills. Wanted to sleep some more.”

  “So you let him?”

  She nods.

  “And where did you place his morning pills?”

  “Back in the kitchen with the pill organizer.”

  “What happened next?”

  “I had to go to my room.”

  “Why?”

  “Around 8 A.M., David and Judith showed up. They’re still mad at me about what happened in the courtroom with Judith’s sister. So Monae agreed to cover for me.”

  “When did you give Dr. Rosen his pills?”

  “I guess it was around eight thirty, after David and Judith finally left. Monae knocked on my door. Told me they were gone; that I was back on duty. I finally got Dr. Rosen to drink a can of Ensure—because he needed something in his stomach before he took his medicines. I had his morning pills all set in a paper cup, but he wanted to talk first.”

  “About what?”

  “Family stuff.”

  “Christine?” says Ceepak.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Your patient is deceased. The possibility that he might’ve been murdered has been raised. Your obligation is to the truth now, not your patient.”

  “So you’re saying I’m free to discuss ‘family affairs’ that came to my knowledge during the practice of my calling?”

  Yep, it’s code versus code.

  And if I’m following the ethical logic, here, our need to learn the truth in the pursuit of justice outweighs Christine’s obligation to keep mum about the dead man’s family.

  24

  CHRISTINE TAKES A MOMENT BUT WINDS UP ON THE SAME PAGE as Ceepak.

  “The reason Dr. Rosen was so tired this morning was because, last night, Monae drove him to The Trattoria, a restaurant on Ocean Avenue.”

  The Trattoria is one of Sea Haven’s swankiest dining spots. They charge so much, they only have like ten tables and a back room for “private affairs.”

  “Michael Rosen had booked the restaurant’s private room so he could share what he called ‘exciting news’ with his father and brother. Judith and Little Arnie weren’t invited. When Dr. Rosen arrived at the restaurant, Michael told Monae to ‘order anything she wanted’ in the front dining room while the Rosens had their dinner.”

  “Did Monae mention anything about this dinner when you relieved her this morning?”

  “A little. And then, seeing how tired and upset Dr. Rosen was, I have a feeling that, whatever Michael’s big news was, it didn’t go over very well.”

  “So, after you talked about the dinner and he drank his Ensure, you gave Dr. Rosen his pills?”

  “That’s right. And he drifted back to sleep.” Christine’s voice catches. “He never woke up. A few minutes later, I was in the kitchen, making tea, when I heard his bed rattling. I thought maybe he was trying to get up and go to the bathroom. I looked in on him. He seemed to be resting peacefully. So, I went ahead and fixed my tea. When I was done, I went back out and …”

  “He was dead,” Ceepak says, so she doesn’t have to. “Thank you, Christine. I know it’s difficult to relive those final moments but your recollection could prove important. Why don’t you go finish packing your belongings into your car?”

  “But where am I going? The motel again?”

  “Afraid not,” I say, fishing my key ring out of my pocket. “Too many tourists in town. You’re going to stay at my place until we come up with something better.”

  Christine looks either confused or interested. One of those.

  “I’m going to bunk with the Ceepaks,” I add quickly. “Do you know the Sea Village Apartment Complex?”

  “Sure. It used to be a motel, right?”

  Christine is correct. But the motel owners realized they wouldn’t have to work so hard sanitizing toilets for people’s protection if they charged by the month instead of the week.

  “I’m in one-eleven. There’s a parking spot right outside the door. Sorry about the bed. I forgot to make it this morning. Oh, you might want to pick up some toilet paper, too. I was running a little low.”

  Christine surprises me with another hug.

  “Thank you, Danny.”

  She scurries off into the house.

  “So,” I say, “should we call Dr. Kurth?”

  “Roger that,” says Ceepak, shifting back into Robocop mode. “The rattling of his bed prior to his death adds fuel to my mother’s suspicions. It could have been death throes, the sudden, violent movements those dying often make immediately prior to their passing …”

  “Or?”

  “It could’ve been a convulsion, Danny. From cyanide poisoning.”

  And so we call Dr. Kurth.

  Ceepak has her office, home, and cell numbers.

  Yes, over the past few years, we’ve kept the county medical examiner’s office kind of busy.

  We finally reach her on her cell. At her daughter’s soccer game. Ceepak puts her on speakerphone.

  “Sorry to disturb you, Rebecca.”

  “What’s up, John?”

  “We need a quick autopsy.”

  There is an awkward pause.

  So Ceepak continues. “Arnold Rosen passed away this morning.”

  “The dentist?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Wasn’t he like a hundred years old?”

  “Ninety-four.”

  “And you want me to do an autopsy on a ninety-four year old dentist because …?”

  “Suspicions have been aroused regarding the circumstances of his death.”

  So far, so good. Ceepak hasn’t had to say, “Because my mommy told me.”
br />   “I don’t know, John …”

  “You could limit the toxicology screen.”

  “To what?”

  “Cyanide poisoning.”

  “Seriously? Who would want to poison a ninety-four-year-old man?”

  “Dr. Kurth?”

  “Yes, John?”

  “If you find the poison, I promise you, Danny and I will move heaven and earth to find the answer to that question.”

  Another pause.

  Maybe a sigh.

  Hard to tell on a cell phone.

  “Dr. Rosen is Jewish, correct?” says Dr. Kurth.

  “Roger that.”

  “Okay. They’re going to want to hold his funeral ASAP. If we’re doing this, we need to do it today.”

  Yet another pause. So I pipe up. “Are we doing it?”

  “Yes,” says Dr. Kurth. “Where’s the body?”

  Ceepak looks at me. I shrug. The hearse we saw earlier didn’t have anything like “Fred’s Funeral Home” decals plastered all over it.

  “We’ll get back to you with that information,” says Ceepak.

  “Hurry. My other daughter’s birthday is today. We’re doing a cookout and ball bounce.”

  “Thank you, Rebecca.”

  “You boys owe me one.”

  “Roger that,” I say while Ceepak nods.

  He thumbs off the phone.

  We both look back at the beach house.

  Now it’s Ceepak’s turn to sigh.

  Because he knows we have to walk back inside and say, “Excuse us, where is your father’s dead body? We’d like to pump his stomach.”

  Should be fun.

  25

  HEADING BACK INTO THE BEACH HOUSE THROUGH THE BACK door, we hear a lady screaming her head off.

  Judith.

  “Severance pay? Are you insane, Michael?”

  “She worked for Dad for six months …”

  “Christine gets nothing,” says David. “Zip. Nada.”

  “She humiliated my sister in open court …”

  Ceepak clears his throat. Loudly.

  We’re cops. We don’t get to eavesdrop without announcing our presence.

  “Excuse us,” he says when we step into the room where the Rosen family stands arguing around their late father’s empty hospital bed.

  Judith beams us her singing nun smile again, squeezes her chubby pink thighs together to squelch her rage.

  “We have arranged alternate housing for Ms. Lemonopolous,” Ceepak announces.

  “Thank you,” gushes Michael. “I was a little worried. Does she need money? Because I could lend her …”

  “Oh no, Michael,” says Judith, sweeter than corn syrup. “You don’t need to do that. It’s a kind and generous offer, but Dad paid Miss Christine a very substantial salary. I’m sure she’ll be fine without the family’s continued assistance.” Judith, who really shouldn’t wear miniskirts, locks her focus on Ceepak. “Do you officers need something else? We have so many preparations to attend to. Our rabbi, Dr. Bronstein, is on his way over to help us make the necessary arrangements.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” says Ceepak. “Where is Dr. Rosen’s body?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Which funeral home will you be using?”

  “Grossman & Mehringer. Why?”

  “The county medical examiner, at our request, is going to perform a post mortem toxicology screening.”

  “What?” this from Michael. “An autopsy?”

  Guess he produces cop shows out in Hollywood.

  “You’re joking right?”

  “No, sir. We want to eliminate even the slightest possibility that your father was poisoned.”

  “Poisoned?” says Judith, her smile slipping dangerously close to a sneer. “Dad was ninety-four years old. He passed away in his sleep. Please, officers, allow him to die with a modicum of dignity.”

  “Besides,” says David, “doesn’t this ‘county medical examiner’ have more important duties to attend to? It’s Saturday. They’ll get time and a half. That’s why Dad’s property taxes are so high.”

  Michael stays mum.

  “What if we don’t approve of this autopsy?” says Judith. “Surely, as his family, we have a say in this matter.”

  “Actually,” says Ceepak, “in the state of New Jersey the medical examiner autopsy, unlike a hospital autopsy, does not require permission from the next of kin. It is done under statutory authority. Also, it will not delay your funeral arrangements as …”

  There is a knock at the front door.

  “That’s probably Rabbi Bronstein,” says David. “I’ll let him in.”

  David practically runs to the front door. Judith blinks and smiles some more.

  “Hello, Rabbi,” David says out in the entryway. “Thank you for coming so quickly.”

  “Of course, David. How are you holding up?”

  “Okay. I mean we expected this, but … still …”

  David leads Dr. Bronstein into the dining room.

  “He was your father,” says the rabbi, a gentle-looking man in a dark suit and yarmulke. “Your grief is understandable. But grief is an ancient and universal power that helps us humans mend our broken hearts. Hello, Judith. Michael. My condolences on your loss.”

  “Thank you, Rabbi,” says Judith, brushing at her blonde hair. “I wonder if you could help us with an unfortunate situation …”

  She gestures toward Ceepak and me.

  We’re her unfortunate situation.

  “Hello, Rabbi Bronstein,” says Ceepak.

  “John. Always good to see you.”

  “These police officers want to do an autopsy,” says Judith, jutting out her plus-size hip and resting a hand on it.

  “Is this true, John?”

  “Yes, sir. We’d like to eliminate any doubt as to the cause of Dr. Rosen’s death. However, to do so, we will need access to his corpse.”

  “Of course. Have you alerted the morticians at Grossman & Mehringer? They may have already begun their embalming procedures.”

  “Rabbi?” Judith sounds, well, mortified.

  The Rabbi shrugs. “What Detective Ceepak and the police are asking is reasonable, Judith. And I, of course, harbor no religious objection to the procedure. Go, John. Do this thing.”

  “Thank you, Rabbi.”

  “Shalom. Might I call you later?”

  “Of course. Do you still have my cell number?”

  “Yes.” Bronstein taps his suit coat pocket. “It’s in my phone. From February.”

  “I look forward to talking to you.” Ceepak turns to face the Rosen family. “Again our condolences on your loss. And rest assured, the medical examiner will treat your father’s remains with the utmost respect and dignity.”

  I take that as our cue to hurry out the front door.

  So we do.

  When we’re in my Jeep, I ask Ceepak, “So where to?”

  “My mother’s. I want to ask her for the full details of her conversation with Dr. Rosen.”

  I crank the ignition and we take off. I have one of those swirling gumball-machine lights in my glove compartment that I could slap on the hood of my Jeep (it plugs into the cigarette lighter) but I figure running over to see Ceepak’s mom isn’t really a lights-and-sirens type event.

  “So,” I say, “what happened back in February?”

  “Some local skinheads spray-painted swastikas on the front doors of B’nai Jeshurun.”

  “And you cracked the case?”

  “Roger that. One of the boys left his full handprint on a can of black spray paint he had tossed into the bushes not far from the temple doors. I ran it through the system. Made a match.”

  “How come I never heard about this?”

  “We opened and closed the case in under twelve hours. I believe you had the night off.”

  “But I never saw the swastikas.”

  “The two boys—who, by the way, confessed immediately, when I noted the incriminating black paint caked under their f
ingernails—agreed to scrub the doors clean before I escorted them over to the Ocean County Juvenile Detention Center.”

  Of course they did. Ceepak can be very convincing.

  While I drive, Ceepak works his phone. He keeps all his conversations on speakerphone so I can stay up to speed.

  The morticians at Grossman & Mehringer are instructed not to touch Dr. Rosen’s body and to expect Dr. Kurth’s imminent arrival. The Funeral Home agrees to cooperate and “help in any way possible.” They’ve worked with Dr. Kurth before.

  The next call goes to Dr. Kurth. She’ll make her examination, take her fluid samples, and get the body back to the funeral home “before sundown.”

  She promises us results ASAP.

  “Not that we’re going to find anything except what he ate for breakfast.”

  Ceepak thanks Dr. Kurth.

  Five minutes later, we pull up to the Oceanaire condo complex’s guard shack.

  “Hey, Detective Ceepak,” says the young guy with the clipboard on guard duty. “Here to see your mom?”

  “Roger that. And, Bruce?”

  “Sir?”

  “Be extra vigilant. As anticipated, my father has returned to Sea Haven.”

  “Don’t worry, sir.” He taps a sheet of paper taped to the top of his small desk. “We have the protocol and procedures right here. We are ready to rock and roll.”

  “Excellent. Keep up the good work.”

  “You got it, man.”

  The gate rises.

  “That’s Bruce Southworth,” says Ceepak as we cruise into the condo complex. “He has the potential to be a fine law-enforcement officer some day.”

  “Good to know.”

  Ceepak’s phone chirrups. It’s his standard ringtone, not one of the ones I programmed in for him.

  He jabs the speakerphone button.

  “Hello?”

  “John?”

  “Rabbi Bronstein.”

  “Yes. Might I speak freely?”

  “Certainly, sir. I’m here with my partner, detective Boyle.”

  Wow, that’s right. This, for the time being, anyway, is a murder investigation. That means I’m a detective again.

  “The young man who was with you at the house?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Then he should hear what I am about to say, too.”

  “What’s wrong, rabbi?”